


Reawaken

by orphan_account



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Sex, Desk Sex, Exhibitionism, Fingers in Mouth, Harder Martin, I'm always surprised when ships involving Elias are consensual but here we are, Jon's poor desk, Light BDSM, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Potentially unhealthy relationship, Probably slightly softer Elias, Soft BDSM, Temporary Character Death, That trope where you come back from the dead because your two coworkers are fucking on your desk, That's a trope right, The occasional Question, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Voyeurism, if you squint anyway, implicit and explicit consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 12:15:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15885852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Jon dies; Elias and Martin attempt to cope (poorly); Jon stops being dead to ask them if they are, in fact, fucking on his desk.





	Reawaken

Jon dies. The Unknowing is halted; Elias, of course, easily circumvents all attempts to kill him. But Jon was not supposed to die. He dies the only way an Archivist can: through sheer unlucky chance. Tim, having procured a gun as an additional method for dealing with the creatures who took his brother from him, aims at Nikola Orsinov in the aftermath, aims and misses. The shot ricochets off a stone wall and goes straight through Jon’s lung. He bleeds to death in a hysterical Martin’s arms.

            Tim expects Elias to kill him, as well; either for Jon’s death or for the abortive attempt by the Archive to assert its independence. He is disappointed. Elias does nothing more than chide them for discussing their plans where they could be overheard, then vanishes into his office, as pale as any ghost.

            Martin stops leaving the Archive. Elias never did. Basira tries to comfort him, but she doesn’t know how. Martin mumbles things about holding the fort or not wanting to let Jon down, but it’s obvious that he means he wants to lose himself in his work, to drown out his grief with word after word. Elias knows he requires a new Archivist, and Martin has always been promising. He allows it.

            “You need to stop being such an asshole,” Martin tells him, three weeks and four days after Jon’s death. Elias raises an eyebrow at him. Martin shrugs. “People don’t work well if they’re not happy.”

            “You do,” Elias points out.

            “Yeah,” Martin agrees. “But you don’t. Neither do the other assistants.”

            “Hm,” says Elias. He doesn’t look at the flask of gin stood neatly on one side of his desk. Neither does Martin. They are both aware of it. “There is little to be done about my happiness or lack thereof,” he says. “And I don’t believe that Melanie or Tim is likely to be happy here regardless of whether or not I am an asshole. I will try to rein myself in with respect to Basira, I suppose. She’s more competent than I was expecting.”

            “You shouldn’t drink so much, either,” Martin says, and it’s unnerving how much more he sees now. Elias looks back at him, unflinching.

            “You may go now, Martin,” he says.

~

            Four weeks and a day after Jon dies, Martin fucks Elias. It’s not as if there’s much workplace protocol left anyway. And if it gets their mind off Jon for a bit, so much the better, Martin thinks briefly as he sinks down in Elias’s lap. Before he started taking statements, he never really understood the weird relationship between Jon and Elias. Now he has some idea what it is to see too much, he realizes it was at least partly founded on a hunger for someone else who understands the hunger.

            Elias doesn’t let him have control for long; for a man so given to Beholding, he has quite a bit of Web, Martin thinks. But Martin doesn’t mind; if Elias is pinning his arms behind him and fucking him into the desk, he’s distracted, a distraction which very well might clear his head. They need a clearheaded employer far more than they need one who isn’t an asshole, but (a) Martin can’t really just tell Elias that one and expect him to take it into consideration, (b) Martin also wants to take his mind off things, and (c) Elias is damn good in bed, especially if he’s in control of the proceedings.

~

            Five weeks after Jon dies, Martin sees him in the Archive. At first he thinks he’s hallucinating, that he’s gone bloody insane from grief or that there’s another one of the Not Them around, despite how little sense that makes now. Jon just frowns at him in vague irritation, asks Martin where his tape recorder is, and then vanishes. Martin decides hallucination is likelier.

            The second time this happens, he wonders about ghosts. But none of the statements about ghosts have been really well-attested; zombies and walking corpses, yes, but no ghosts. And it’s so hard not to think it’s real when Jon sighs in frustration and snaps his fingers in front of Martin’s face. “Martin, please pay attention,” he says, and then he’s gone again.

            The third time, he goes to Elias. “Either I’m going crazy or we’re missing something,” he says.

            “I wouldn’t discount insanity,” Elias tells him dryly, but his eyes flicker to the flask of gin. “Wait a moment, Martin. I need to _look_.” There is no apparent physical change, but Elias stiffens ever-so-slightly.

~

            Jon is dead and not dead, too talented an Archivist for the Eye to lose, and his pattern, his soul, his residue is soaked into the bones of the Archive in a way Elias has never known was possible. Something that he should have seen, known, felt, god knows how many days ago, but he was too seeped in unbecoming self-pity and alcohol. _Jon_. The Archivist. His Archivist, more than Gertrude was ever _his_. And that is, Elias knows, a thoroughly unacceptable point of view for a true servant of the Eye. Jon is Beholding’s, if anything; he is the Archive’s. But whatever of Elias is left that desires only for himself desires Jon beyond almost anything in the world, save knowledge, and in the desire for knowledge he is united with Jon and perhaps even Martin.

            The difficulty, of course, is that Jon does not know how to coalesce; the pattern that is Jon housed in the walls of the Archive does not properly know how to project that pattern into reality. This is what Elias tells Martin. Martin blinks at him for a long moment and then smiles, a sharper, harsher smile than he might have shown in the past, but the Archive changes all of them, and Elias has long since given up being discouraged by that reminder.

            “Let’s annoy him,” Martin says. Elias raises a cool eyebrow.

            “What, exactly, did you have in mind?” he asks.

~

            Martin feels a little bit bad about the fact he’s being pushed down on top of the Archivist’s desk, especially with the way his shaking hand collides with a stack of unread statements and scatters them every which way. Elias makes an irritated noise, but then—that’s at least part of the point, isn’t it? Martin’s trembling as Elias presses one slick finger inside him, another hand down on his head so that his cheek is being ground against paper.

            He wonders if this will actually work. Prior to this, all their trysts have taken place behind the locked doors of Elias’s office. This is different; Martin can already feel the difference, can already feel the way the alert _notice_ is starting to swirl around them, and by the time Elias has worked him open, fingers scissoring inside him, Martin is halfway between cringing and a strange, exhibitionist pleasure at the sensation.

            Elias is _just_ starting to breach him when, “Are you two fucking on my desk?”

            And he’s just _there_ , as Elias finishes seating himself inside Martin, Jon is just—one second there’s nothing but that watching feeling, the next he’s standing in front of them, his tone of voice somewhere between aggrieved and curious. He takes a surprised step forward, one hand on his head.

            “Technically it’s Martin’s desk,” Elias drawls, and Jon frowns.

            “No,” he says irritably. “It’s the Archivist’s, and I’m the Archivist, so it’s mine.”

            “Hnnngh,” Martin says, then, “You’ve been gone for a minute, Jon. Someone had to— _nnnf_ —temporarily— _Elias_ I am trying to have a conversation here!”

            “I’ve been—” Jon stops, and now Elias does stop; Martin is sure he also sees the dawning horror sliding across Jon’s face. “Oh, god,” Jon says. “Oh, god, I’m—”

            “No,” says Elias, his implacable, unmoving voice carrying a surety Martin doesn’t think anything else could have. “No, you’re not dead, Jon. You’re—changed.”

            “But you’re still you,” Martin manages. “Jon, I swear, I—I’ve been reading statements, I _know_ who you are.”

            Emotions flutter like birds across Jon’s face. Fear, pain, loss—followed rather quickly by the same irritation and an open, avid curiosity. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then runs his tongue all the way around it and closes it again. Elias waits patiently, not removing his hand from Martin’s head nor his cock from Martin’s arse. He probably looks completely unaffected, too, the bastard, Martin thinks in frustration. Finally, Jon expels an angry breath.

            “Can I watch?” he asks, with only a touch left of the petulant frustration evident in his voice when he first appeared. Elias is smirking; Martin can _feel_ him smirking. Martin, in contrast, is squirming, because his erection, which was starting to flag, has hardened again, trapped beneath his stomach and Jon’s desk.

            “Jon, you may do whatever you like,” Elias says, voice faintly breathless. “Isn’t that right, Martin?”

            The noise that comes out of Martin’s mouth could fairly be called a whine. “Yes,” he manages after a second. “Fuck. Jon. _Please_.” Elias thrusts inside him again, and his eyes roll up in his head, vision going black for a second, for long enough that he’s not expecting it when he feels a pair of thin, supple fingers prodding questioningly at his lips. A gentle, hesitant hand is laid on his head. Martin jerks and almost comes like that, only managing to hold off because Elias bears him down into the desk with brutal efficiency. “Jon?” he breathes, and he looks up to see that Jon is regarding them both with an almost awed expression on his face.

            For a moment, Elias goes still behind him, and his hand moves from the back of Martin’s neck onto his head. Martin moans, opening his mouth for Jon’s fingers, and he sees Jon’s smile slip into something a little closer to a smirk as he carefully entwines his fingers with Elias’s in Martin’s hair.

            “Move your fingers in and out,” Elias instructs, and Martin groans as Jon complies, doing his best to suck at them, to send his tongue swirling around them, feeling his way around the rough edges of Jon’s finger, the startling, heart-wrenching slickness of the burn scarring splashed haphazardly across them. But in his _mouth_ , pumping in and out tentatively and in a wholly different rhythm from the one that Elias is setting up behind him, which is brisk and efficient—Martin moans, trying to hitch his hips back against Elias, trying to free his erection just enough to get some stimulation against Jon’s damn desk.

            “Very good,” Elias tells him—tells them both.

            “I hate both of you,” Jon says, but Martin can feel the lie in the way his fingers move delicately across Martin’s tongue, slipping smoothly until the edges of the scars catch a little. Saliva is trickling out of the corner of Martin’s mouth, and Elias and Jon’s hands are moving ceaselessly through his hair, Elias tugging a little, each one of Jon’s motions a gentler mirror.

            “ _Please_ ,” Martin tries to whine, but the noise that actually makes it past Jon’s fingers is significantly less comprehensible. He loses himself a little, then, in the meticulous rhythmic penetration of his arse, the soft exploration of his mouth, the hands—so many hands—everywhere, petting him, touching him, learning and mapping and cataloguing him. At some point, he manages to open his eyes, to look up at Jon, who’s looking down at him, a little frown seated in between his brown eyes as they both are knowing and being known and—

            Martin comes against the desk with a sharp gasp, muffled by Jon’s fingers. A moment later Elias hisses a soft curse and bends forward, actually forcing Martin’s feet off the floor as his hand tightens in Martin’s hair. For a moment he is pressed against the length of Martin’s back and his legs, the two of them slicked together with sweat, and then he peels himself up and off with a grunt and a gasp. Martin flops sideways; then, with the urgency of arousal somewhat past, reaches out a trembling hand toward Jon, who’s just stood there with a confused but quite wide smile on his face. “Jon,” Martin says. “Oh, _Jon_.”

            And he’s crying, which is stupid at this point, but he can’t stop, he’s fucking naked and crying and covered in fluids, and now he’s reaching across the desk to take Jon’s wrist and pull him close. Jon lets him, curls himself around Martin like it’s coming home, tips Martin’s face up and kisses him with an intensity that makes Martin drum his feet against the poor, abused desk.

            There’s a silence behind them that speaks volumes, and the sound of Elias stepping away is loud despite the fact he treads lightly. “Where exactly do you think you’re going?” Jon _asks_ , breaking the kiss and looking beyond Martin.

            “To my office,” Elias answers, with a momentary hitch in his breath.

            “I don’t think so,” Jon tells him, and Martin still doesn’t quite have the words for it, but he reaches back to grasp Elias’s wrist and pull him closer. “Were you using poor Martin as a substitute?”

            The question is rapid, and Elias breathes harshly again and gasps out, “No.”

            “Well, then.”

            “Stop trying to act as if _you_ are the Head of the Institute, Jon,” Elias says, sounding almost cross as he’s pulled into the tangle, one hand on Martin’s head, the other slipping behind Jon’s waist.

            “Then you start acting like it,” Jon says, voice trembling a little, as he rests his head in the crook of Elias’s shoulder. And for once, Martin grins to realize, Elias is speechless.


End file.
